The Vault by Ruth Rendell Read Free Book Online Page A

there?’ Dora pointed to Paulson and Grieve’s iron lid. ‘In a hole under that?’
    ‘In a hole under that,’ Wexford echoed. ‘And an ill-assorted bunch they were. Two men, two women. Two young, two older. Let’s go. There’s nothing to see.’
    They walked up to West Hampstead. It was Wednesday and Tom would call him tomorrow. He had the coachhouse landline number and Wexford’s mobile number. Tom had asked him to be his adviser and he would call him tomorrow. A taxi came and they got into it. He was constantly surprised by the amount taxis cost and had learnt that they were more expensive after eight in the evening. Ten pounds to go from one side of Hampstead to the other even before eight …
    It was starting to get dark. Sheila’s cat, a British Blue called Bettina, was sitting on their doorstep when they got back.‘Back’ not ‘home’. He hadn’t reached that stage yet and perhaps he never would. The cat let out a loud piercing mew and ran inside when Dora unlocked the front door.
    ‘Shall I give her a saucer of milk?’
    Dora looked shocked. ‘Oh, no, you mustn’t. Milk’s very bad for cats, apparently. They can’t digest it.’
    Wexford did some digesting himself, then said, ‘Are you telling me that for centuries man has been giving cats milk in life and in literature? Every book or story with a cat in it has it drinking milk. Milk is what cats drink, live on, like, enjoy. If you were doing one of those tests where you’re given a word and have to say the first other word that comes into your head, if you were given “cat” you’d probably say “milk”. And now you tell me milk is
bad for cats.’
    ‘I can’t help all that, Reg. That’s what Sheila said. Her vet told her.’
    ‘The next thing will be bones are bad for dogs.’
    ‘Well, as a matter of fact, a lot of people say they are. Bones can splinter, you see.’
    The cat appeared contented with nothing but their company. She sat with them until Wexford switched on the
News at Ten
and then, apparently having an aversion to television, took her departure, a slender slinky shape under her thick blue coat, streaking up through the dusk to the big house.
    H e wasn’t going to stay in on Thursday and wait for Tom’s call, but he took his mobile out with him. He walked by way of the Heath to Kenwood, intending to make it to Highgate, but that would have meant finding some sort of transport to bring him back. It was too far to walk both ways. Highgate could be saved for another day. St Michael’s Church where Coleridge had a memorial tablet could wait till nextweek and so could Highgate Hill where Dick Whittington and his cat turned to look down on London and its gold-paved streets. ‘I would bet you anything you like,’ Wexford said to no one in particular, ‘that he gave milk to his cat.’
    Tom didn’t call. Nor was there a message from him on the landline when he got back. Never mind. He and Dora went to the cinema to see
Slumdog Millionaire
and next morning, in the absence of any phone call or message, he said to Dora, ‘Let’s go home for the weekend.’
    ‘We
are
at home.’
    ‘No we’re not. Not really. If we go before three we’ll avoid the get-away-from-London rush.’

CHAPTER SIX
    I t was the first time he had sat in the bar of the Olive and Dove as an ordinary member of the public and not as a policeman. ‘Why don’t we go into the snug?’ he said to Mike Burden.
    ‘The snug’s gone. It’s been converted into a ladies-only bar.’
    Wexford stared. ‘Can they do that? Isn’t it what we now have to call gender discrimination?’
    ‘Probably. There’s a big fight on about it. It’s been the lead story in the
Courier
for the past week. Red wine?’
    ‘That hasn’t changed.’
    Wexford and Dora had reached home in the late afternoon of the day before. As it had been last time, it was a little like returning from a fortnight’s holiday, but knowing you could go back to that holiday as soon as you liked.